


Between the Sheets - Late Night Mix

by Losemyhead



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Alex wears his glasses, Henry dreams, M/M, fresh, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 17:43:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20411752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Losemyhead/pseuds/Losemyhead
Summary: Alex's body comes back to Henry in his dreams.





	Between the Sheets - Late Night Mix

**Author's Note:**

> I still have that book crush.

Henry moves his arm, reaches out, brushes a hand across warm skin. He instinctively wraps his arm around Alex waist and pulls him in closer until their bodies are flush, skin to skin, until there’s no space between them. Until Alex is completely eclipsed in Henry’s embrace. They stay like this for minutes or hours–Henry doesn’t know how long because time measures differently when he’s alone with Alex. Time moves at a different pace when they’re in bed together, at that juncture when night is coming to a close but it’s still too early for dawn–pre-dawn–when the world is tranquil and fresh and anything is possible. At that time, seconds could be days, a moment could be a year.

Dreams can come true.

Henry is comfortable and drowsy and so goddamn _happy_ with Alex in his arms, he wants this moment to last forever. Maybe it will.

Henry trails his hand down to the dip of Alex’s waist, rests his hand on smooth skin. He tugs Alex closer and Alex moves backwards on instinct. Henry slides his hand lower still. He thinks about that freckle, the one just above Alex’s hip, the one he discovered that first night in Alex’s bedroom and wonders if he’s reached it yet, if it’s beneath his hand. It might be.

They lie still, enveloped in warmth and each other. Henry thinks Alex may have fallen asleep again.

He enjoys the feel of Alex’s skin under his palm as he glides his hand down Alex’s hip, around the curve of his arse and down the back of his thigh; warm, firm. He reaches Alex’s knee, curls his finger around the back and hoists Alex’s leg up, slides in closer. Alex moves to let him.

He traces his hand back up Alex’s thigh, feeling firm muscle under warm skin, until he reaches Alex’s hip again, trails his fingers further until he reaches the dip of Alex’s waist. He rests his hand there a moment before skating his hand along the length of Alex’s arm. He reaches the back of Alex’s hand, slides his hand in place and laces their fingers together, squeezes. He thinks he hears Alex hum.

One of Henry’s long legs finds its way between Alex’s thighs and he tangles his feet with Alex’s. They shuffle their feet together for warmth, for comfort, just for something to do. Henry squeezes Alex’s hand with intertwined fingers, Alex squeezes back. Alex burrows backwards closer to Henry and Henry moves forward until there’s no space between them. Henry smiles to himself.

This is how they fall asleep most nights, pressed together, no distance between their bodies. Henry loves the thrum of Alex’s heart beneath his fingers, beneath his lips. To Henry the drumming is a constant reminder of their love – alive and vital, eternal. These nights always feel like a dream to Henry.

Henry rubs his nose into the soft curls at the nape of Alex’s neck, breathes him in, sighs.

He can smell Alex’s shampoo – which is his shampoo these days – can smell the hint of Alex’s cologne, and something else as well, something underneath. Something distinctly Alex. This is how it should always be, Henry thinks. The two of us, just like this.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he marvels at how their relationship made it this far. With everything stacked against them it’s a minor miracle that they made it through, survived his brother’s prejudice, the Queen’s intolerance, the negative press and cancelled engagements. There’s been no end of scrutiny by the papers and individuals alike, photographs taken without their permission posted and commented on ad nauseam on social media, mindless tweets about their relationship, think pieces by people who have nothing better to do. Baseless opinions, slurs, lies.

But there’s also been an outpouring of support since they were outed so unscrupulously. Rallies and rainbow flags, positive comments on social media, a deluge of congratulations, and those bright yellow HISTORY, HUH? T-shirts that their supporters created with Sharpies and June endorsed in Vogue so they sold out in a matter of hours. New engagements, new interviews.

They made it through everything still intact, flourishing even, because their love is indomitable.

He burrows even closer into Alex, moving his hips forward. He feels himself harden as Alex shifts against him. He pulls Alex closer.

He rubs his nose into Alex’s hair, tries to breathe in his scent under Alex’s shampoo and the hint of cologne that lingers. His mind is trying to put a name to it. He’s trying to figure out the exact aroma even though he’s smelled it a hundred times before. But this time the words escape him. He can’t put his finger on it, can’t recall the name. He tries again, racking his brain but still it eludes him. He takes a deep breath, pushes his nose even closer, trying to grasp the name of the scent but he can’t catch it.

The last trace of Alex’s shampoo and cologne has disappeared. Henry breathes deeply in a vain effort to find that smell again. He needs to decipher it, breakdown the components so he knows the exact elements– the very foundation of Alex. It’s particularly important all of a sudden, perhaps the most important thing in the entire world, because right now there’s nothing else in the entire world but him and Alex. He inhales again but finds nothing. All traces are gone no matter how deep he breathes or how much he racks his brain to recall the exact fragrance of Alex.

Henry panics. His hand gropes around the mattress, searching for Alex’s hand but it’s not there, there’s nothing but cool sheets under his fingers. He feels for Alex’s back against his chest, his legs entwined with his but comes up empty. His hand flails under the duvet again but Alex isn’t there. He’s not anywhere.

He wakes with a start, his alarm bleating intrusively in the quiet.

It takes a moment for his mind to adjust. The bleak London winter outside casts the room in a grey half-light, the sound of rain softly patting against the window tells him immediately where he is. He’s not with Alex, naked in the bed they share in Brooklyn, in the bed they bought together. He’s in his awful, gilded, baroque bed at Kensington Palace wearing his heather-grey T-shirt and plaid pyjama bottoms he purposely left behind. He’s three thousand five hundred miles away. Alone.

_Just a dream._

He slides his hand across the sheets where dream Alex was just moments before. The sheets are cool, empty. He remembers the warmth of Alex’s skin against his own, Alex’s back against his chest, the phantom touch of Alex’s fingers as they entwined with his own. It makes every bone in his body ache. He misses Alex instantly. He misses him like a home.

He stares up at the embellished ceiling, at the antique chandelier above him and sighs. Cool sheets, empty bed, save for David who is curled up by his feet. David, who he brings with him across the Atlantic for company and to visit Mr. Wobbles occasionally. David opens one eye, yawns silently, stretches and goes back to sleep, pressing his tiny body against Henry’s foot.

Henry thinks about why he’s here, in London, without Alex; the appearance yesterday, the hospital visit tomorrow, the interview this morning.

Henry still finds it difficult to talk openly about their relationship to the media, to anyone other than Alex and Bea, but Shaan always intervenes to ensure each interview focuses on what Henry wants, not their relationship. Today Henry is happy to talk about the LGBT youth shelters and the LGBT rights foundation.

At least Shaan manages to push all of his appearances, together with the obligatory family meeting, into one tedious and slightly panic-induced week each month. At least he’s free to spend the rest of the month in New York, working unhindered. At least he’s weaned himself off the little yellow pills. . .

He knows New York isn’t permanent. He knows the shelter will be able to run itself soon enough with the newly trained staff and volunteers who have recently come on board. He knows his services will no longer be required on a full time basis eventually. He knows that as a royal prince, he has responsibilities to the Crown and his country, but for now he has a job to do, he’s needed in New York at the shelter and the foundation, and Alex is studying in New York and they can be together.

Henry loves that they can come home and talk about their days, eat dinner together, fall asleep together and wake up in the same time zone. That they almost feel like a regular couple doing regular, couple things. When Henry and Alex are alone in their apartment, they can pretend to be two anonymous people in the world. Henry can sit at his father’s desk at the end of his day and work through paperwork and feel like a normal bloke living a normal life, with his boyfriend studying next to him.

Except when Henry has to come home.

Henry drags his fingers through his hair and thinks about the warm touch of Alex pressed up against him, the remnants of the dream still fresh. He’s still annoyed at being woken in the midst of such a pleasant dream, right when things were starting to heat up. There are a thousand different ways the dream could have gone, he so very much wants to know which one it was going to be today.

Was the dream going to end where it did, no more than the touch of luscious skin against skin to wake up to, or was dream Henry going to take it further? It felt like dream Henry and Alex were moving towards that delicious place where they lose themselves in each other, taking their time as they take each other apart, painstakingly slow and with the precision of generous lovers. Dream sex is almost as good as real sex – when they’re apart anyway.

Henry holds his breath and tries to hold onto the last fragments of Alex, his body, his touch, before they fade completely. Before he realises what he’s doing he retrieves his mobile from the nightstand.

“H?” Alex’s voice is soft and husky with sleep. Henry eases into the sound.

“Hi love.”

“I got your note,” Alex murmurs.

Henry smiles. Whenever he flies back to London these days, he leaves Alex a note, always written on expensive card he purchased solely for writing Alex, usually left tucked under Alex’s pillow. Neither of them trust email anymore for their personal correspondence, and Henry quite likes the tradition of it. “_I love you, I love you, I love you, I miss you,” _he wrote this time, rearranging the words Alex once wrote him. “Did I wake you?”

“Nah,” Alex mumbles sleepily into the phone. Henry knows he did in fact wake Alex, if Alex’s voice is anything to go by. He checks the time on his mobile, seven am. It’s two am in New York. “What’s up?”

Henry considers telling Alex that something is, indeed up, judging by the tent in his pyjama bottoms, but decides it might come off a little gauche. “Dreamed of you,” he tells Alex instead.

A rustling emanates through the mobile and Henry’s mind flashes on an image of Alex, rolling over to reach for his glasses off the nightstand. He hopes Alex is reaching for his glasses.

“Yeah?” Alex says, more alert. “Wanna tell me about it?” Henry detects a grin.

He lets out a breath, hesitant.

“C’mon,” Alex prompts, then adds when Henry doesn’t respond, “Baby.”

Henry hisses a breath. It’s so unfair when Alex calls him that. Alex knows how weak Henry is when he calls him that. That’s how Alex convinced Henry to buy that hideous blue sofa for the Brooklyn apartment.

_“It’ll brighten up the apartment big time,”_ Alex had argued, along with, _“It matches the colour of your eyes.” _And then he added,_ “Baby.” _

That is also how Henry almost bought that god awful bed Alex had his eyes on, the one with the very solid timber bedposts. Alex fingered his tie meaningfully and grinned wickedly at Henry in front of the salesperson who didn’t know what to make of their antics. The tie was once Henry’s, the one Henry wore in Berlin, the one Alex now likes to wear occasionally to send Henry into a meltdown. The tie Alex keeps in the nightstand all the time.

Henry had stuttered ineloquently, _“Er. Perhaps, yes,”_ before finally coming to his senses and picking something a little more in keeping with the style of the apartment.

He thinks about their apartment, about the bright Mexican throws and cushions Alex picked out that are always thrown haphazardly on the blue sofa, bathing the room in a rainbow of colour. He thinks about the antique desk and chair his mother gave him as a housewarming gift, they belonged to his father. He thinks about their oak dining room table and leather chairs, also selected together, the array of kitchen pots and pans and cooking utensils that Alex picked out himself because Henry hadn’t a clue what to choose, having never had the need to learn to cook in the past. He’s learning now though.

He thinks about their bed, about the bed they did end up buying; soft, grey quilted bedhead, white linens, European goose down duvet, the grey and blue duvet covers, all selected together on a pre-arranged after-hours visit to Savoir Beds. Specifically, he thinks about Alex in that bed, with his glasses on and his mobile on Henry’s pillow. He switches the call to FaceTime.

“Hey,” Alex says. Alex is wearing his glasses.

“Hi,” Henry answers, staring at the image of Alex’s face on his screen. He wants to reach out and touch him.

“So the dream,” Alex says, grinning impishly. Henry knew he’d be grinning.

“Mmm?” Henry hums, smiling like he’s trying not to.

“Tell me everything.”

So Henry does.


End file.
